


As Only Saints Have Listened

by clockworkrobots



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Season/Series 12, Self-Hatred, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:48:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9803210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkrobots/pseuds/clockworkrobots
Summary: “I love you,” he'd said.(12.12 coda)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning that Dean's headspace isn't all that kind or great to himself, and he has a lot of internalised hate. He uses slurs against himself and drinks too much and it's very much not healthy. Yes I am a depressed queer myself thanks for asking.

 

“I love you,” he'd said. Dean heard it with his ears still ringing from the idea that his best friend, his friend who had survived Hell and Purgatory and Leviathan and god damned being friends with _him_ for nine years, might _die_. He said it and looked away and Dean did too, because it was _too much_ , too much and too late and if this was the last time Dean was going to be able to talk to Cas he needed _years_ to say what was still left to say. But Cas said _'I love you,'_ like it's easy, and Dean felt his stomach drop out as his chest was already caving in from the bleak realisation that they have no time left. He said it like it's easy and like Dean is someone capable of _being_ loved, and Dean had no idea what to do with that.

He felt aged fifty years in five minutes.

And then Cas doesn't die. He doesn't die and the demon's dead and they all get out alive like it's some miracle. But the words are still there, in the back of Dean's mind, rattling around his bruised body like a static shock that won't stop.

He doesn't know what to do with them so he drives. He drives and drives until they're all home, all safe within the warded walls of the bunker and where Dean can wash their clothes and pretend blood had never touched them at all.

His mom hangs back in town for a bit, claiming she'll take care of the clean up, let them get a head start on home. Dean's grateful for the reprieve—he doesn't think he could handle burning bodies when he'd almost thought he'd have to do the same to Cas not hours before. He misses her—he always does—but he still doesn't know how to be the right kind of person around her, not all the time. After she'd left, he did come to understand the need for space after the initial shock, but that didn't make it hurt any less, didn't make it feel any less like she'd left because she'd realised her precious son had grown up to be a fuck up hunter just like his dead beat dad. He so badly wants to be the son she'd wanted. But he doesn't know how to be what anyone wants.

Which is why Cas' words still sting at the shroud he wraps himself in. His hands feel fuzzy with pins and needles he can't shake out.

 

***

 

The lights are off in the kitchen just as they'd left them, and Dean doesn't bother switching the overheads back on. There's a small lamp just above the sink that they use when getting midnight snacks, so that's what he turns on instead. He's not hungry, but he could use a drink, so he opens the fridge and hopes to god there's still a beer in there somewhere. He grabs the closest bottle he sees of the few that are lined up to the right, not bothering to check if it's the lager he likes or the shitty stout Sam says is better. At this point he just wants something that'll take the edge off quick.

Dean unscrews the cap (fucking bless screw tops so he doesn't have to rummage around for the opener) and takes a long, desperate gulp. The bitter tang of the beer instantly eases the tension in his shoulders that he didn't know he'd been holding. He takes another quick swing before turning to flip the bottle cap into the trash. He tosses it at it misses with a dull clink on the tiled floor, and Dean grunts in mild annoyance before ambling over to pick it up. Can't have litter in his own kitchen, after all.

Dumping the offending cap in the garbage where it belongs, Dean then spares a glance around the room to see if there's anything else he can compulsively clean before sleep gets the better of him.

Unfortunately the place is fairly spotless, as it's been mostly unused for the past few days. Dean itches to start scrubbing something anyway, but the exhaustion in his bones is starting to weigh down on him. He takes a few last big gulps of his beer, and it's the carbonated tickle as the liquid slide down his throat that makes him remember a night from months ago.

It was just after his mom and Cas had saved Sam, and they'd finally arrived home safe. They had dinner together as a family for what must have been the first time since he was four. But as lovely and thrilling as it was, it was so different from what Dean had dreamed it would be. With his memories from early childhood, he'd created this image in his mind that he had carried with him through the worst pangs of hurt and hopelessness. They'd kept him going when life had gotten too dark, when dad had gotten too drunk or not come home at all and Dean would lie in the dark in a seedy motel room staring at the ceiling wondering what life would be like if things had been different.

He'd had expectations, he guesses, even if they were impossible.

And then the impossible became _real_ , but as Dean's family became whole, his fantasies were destroyed in an instant.

That night Dean had found himself much like he did right now, alone in the kitchen wondering how to reconcile the love he felt and needed when loss was all he knew. He'd drunk far too many beers and slumped to the floor in defeat, old photographs clutched in his hand as is they were an epitaph. That's how Cas had found him, that night, when he'd finally confessed his sins.

“I just... I don't what to do, Cas,” he'd said.

“About your mother?”

“About all of it. I don't...” he'd trailed off, searching for words. “I just don't want to let her down. I can't—” he'd started, and then closed his eyes as he swallowed thickly to stay himself from breaking down completely. Then, quieter, he whispered, “I can't lose her again.”

Cas had been silent for a moment, but then spoke in a soft rumble. “You know as well as I do that I can't promise you that you won't. But I can bet at least it won't be tonight, or tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Dean had murmured, as he willed himself to believe Cas' rational consolations, “yeah.”

They'd sat in solemn silence for a little while longer, until Dean conceded that he might as well try to sleep. Cas had helped him up when he'd struggled slightly to get his balance right, and Dean remembers still how hot the hand that had held his elbow had felt in that cold kitchen.

“You—um. You stayin'?” Dean had asked, trying to sound casual.

“Unless you think I have somewhere else to be,” Cas joked in that deadpan cadence of his.

“Always think you should be here, man,” Dean admitted, the slide of alcohol having loosened his tongue and lowered his guard. I's at that same second that Cas drops his gentle hold, and Dean had yearned at the loss.

But Cas had still smiled quietly and said, “And I always want to be.” and though his arms still ached to be held, that night Dean had still gone to sleep with a warmth nestled in his stomach that had nothing to do with the booze he'd abused.

Dean remembers that night well, because it was only a few days later that his mom _had_ left, and the pain of thirty-three years without her were collapsed and condensed.

Dean stares at the empty kitchen, and wonders how, when he gets everything he'd ever wanted, he still always manages to fuck it up.

He sets the empty bottle down on the counter, wondering if he should crack open another. But a sound from down the hall stops him. It could be Sam, puttering about before begging off to sleep, but it could be Cas, too. Cas, who'd called them _family_ , when Dean, like a fucking chump, still hadn't given him a room.

He'd never done it 'cause Cas had never asked for it. Even when he was sick, he'd preferred suffering in silence in the library, or basking in the glow of the TV in Sam's. He sometimes entertained that Cas could take the bedroom across from his, but whenever he peaked into it, it never looked right. It wasn't the right size, the sink wasn't on the right side, the lights didn't buzz the right way. He could have searched for other rooms, of course, but what if he chose one that Cas didn't like? No, if he made up a room for Cas, it would have to be the right one.

He tried not to listen to the small voice within him that said the only room that _was_ right, was his own.

Tonight, though, is no time for selfishness, he decides. Cas had almost _died_ , and though he was healed, Dean knows better than anyone that that shock doesn't just leave you once the wounds are closed. So he sets off to find his friend, determined to offer him a place comfier to sit down that the library's wooden chairs.

Dean doesn't find him in the library, though, and he isn't in the war room, either. A small panic starts rising that Cas had left without saying anything, but he tries to tamper it down as he heads in the direction of Sam's room to see if Cas is just hanging out with him. 'Cause they're friends, right, that's what friends do. Hang out. Chat.

Dean starts making a list in his mind of all the completely normal and safe activities Cas could be up to in Sam's room, when he's stopped outside his own by the sudden sight of his open door.

Inside, stands Cas, arms hanging slightly awkwardly as his side. It's such a welcome and familiar sight that it fills Dean with an absurd sense of _giddiness_ , andhe almost wants to laugh.

There Cas is, standing in Dean's room alive and whole, and waiting.

Dean steps inside.

“I was just... wondering if you needed anything,” Cas says by way of explanation, shrugging more with his eyes than with his arms in that charming way of his.

Dean blinks.

“Dude, if _I_ need anything? I'm not the one that got _impaled_ today,” Dean huffs in disbelief. Cas has angel whooshed away the stains of blood on his shirt, but damn if Dean doesn't still smell it, the memory of its sour stench still churning in his stomach.

“Yes, well,” Cas concedes, looking away. He frowns at the wall, or at himself maybe, Dean can't always tell. “I'll let you sleep,” he says finally, and moves to leave, but Dean really doesn't know if he can take the sight of Cas walking away from him right now, after everything, so he stops him.

“Hey, whoa,” he says, stepping into the room with his hand up. “It's, uh—” he searches, trying to come up with an excuse to make Cas stay that doesn't sound hopelessly embarrassing or... gay. Not that sounding gay is _bad_ , but it's... Well. It's bad for _him_. He's already corrupt enough, right? There's no point dwelling on all the times a guy has turned his head or made his palms sweat or his heart skip, there's no point because it could never happen, because you can't expect to be a fag and still be called a man at the same time, as his dad always said. There was never any point, because his only purpose was looking after Sam and he even didn't do that well anyway so he was all kinds of useless. No wonder his mom left, too.

Dean clenches his jaw, and tries not to collapse in on himself. This isn't supposed to even be _about_ him, it's about Cas who almost _died_ and Dean couldn't do anything to save him. He couldn't do anything then and he can't even do anything now.

“Dean, are you okay?” Cas asks, face creased in concern. He moves closer, dangerously close, but he still doesn't touch.

“You shouldn't be asking me that,” Dean shakes his head.

Cas' mouth crooks up in a small smile. “I believe that's what friends do.”

“Friends, yeah,” Dean says lamely, head still buzzing with something mean and dark. His hand almost shakes with the impulse to punch something, or maybe—maybe they just want to reach out, but Dean has never been taught how to separate loving a man from violence.

But that's just it. Cas _loves_ him. Him. And Dean isn't sure if he meant that in a friends way or something else, but it almost doesn't matter? Because he loves him and god damn it, Dean loves him too. But he can't say it. He couldn't say it then and he still can't say it now because how do you say all that to the guy who saved your soul and all you gave him back was a pat on the back because if you did anything more you'd never be able to peel yourself away?

“I'm sorry,” he says instead. It's not enough, because he's never enough.

Cas frowns in confusion. “For what?”

Dean wipes a hand down his face, trying not to laugh hysterically. For _what?_ For fucking _everything_.

“I guess standing here like an idiot, for starters,” Dean quips, but then shakes his head. He walks past Cas, and sinks down onto the end of his mattress. Cas follows, and sits down beside him. Their legs don't touch, but Dean imagines briefly what it would be like to press his thigh against him.

“I never thanked you, for saving me,” Cas says, and Dean can't believe his ears.

“I didn't do anything,” he blurts back. “ _Crowley_ broke the spell.” Dean spits his name like it's a curse, because it is. A curse that won't leave them alone but saves the day like he's a hero and Dean will owe it to him for the rest of his life, and Dean _hates_ that.

“Crowley broke the spear,” Cas says. “But you and Sam and your mother were the ones that saved me. You stayed with me.”

“We were the reason you got hurt in the first place,” Dean counters, not willing to give up blame.

“Oh, you were the one that stabbed me? I didn't notice,” Cas deadpans, and it does make Dean chuckle, despite himself. “It was my choice to come with you,” Cas continues more soberly. “And it's a choice I would make and will make again.”

_Because I love you._

Cas doesn't say the words again but Dean hears them hanging in the small space between them anyway, and he sucks in a shaky breath. It's now or never, he guesses.

“That stuff you said,” he begins, determinedly looking at anywhere but Cas' face. “When you were... When you thought you weren't gonna make it.” He pauses, waiting to see if Cas is going to add anything.

“Yes,” is all he says, waiting for Dean to continue.

Dean closes his eyes. The image of Cas' ashen, drained face flickers before him. He swallows back the bitter tang of guilt and shame. “I didn't say it back, but, um. It's there, you know. Sam and me. It's all back at you,” he offers pathetically, refusing to name it like a coward.

But instead of calling him on it, Cas just gently says, “I know.” His voice is rough and familiar and Dean wants to drown in it. He thought he might never hear it again but here it is, wrapping its deep and soft words around Dean like he's something worth never letting go.

“You said you loved me,” he blurts out, and then rushes to correct himself, “Us.”

“Yes,” Cas says again, and Dean wishes he weren't so far away. He's sitting right there but Dean isn't touching him and he feels adrift and lost and blinded. “I do.”

“Good,” Dean says absently. “That's—yeah. We love you too, buddy. Sam and—”

“I hope I was clear,” Cas interrupts Dean's messy attempt at requital. “I didn't exactly have time to rehearse a speech,” he jokes darkly. “But I needed you to know how I felt, even if all I feel for you can't exactly be put into words.”

Cas takes his hand, then, and Dean's too stunned to say anything or do anything else but to helplessly grasp back. Their hands are oddly matched: Dean's fingers are thick and calloused, and Cas' are long and deft. But there's a strength in both of them, that somehow feels stronger when they're fit together.

“Because I love you, Dean Winchester, and I should have said it a hundred times before. I was a coward then, and perhaps I still will be tomorrow, but tonight you deserve to know.”

Dean lets the words wade around him like a soothing bath. Even if Cas doesn't mean it in the way Dean wants, it's good. It's good.

“I guess that's what best friend are supposed to do,” he says, and hope it doesn't sound trite or petty. He means it, for no matter what Cas is his best friend and nothing can ever change that now.

“Best friends, yes.” Cas tilts his head. His hand is still warm in Dean's. “Other kinds of friends, maybe, too,” he says, and then qualifies, “I don't love you in the same way I love Sam, Dean. Not in the same way I've loved anybody else for all the millions of years of my existence.”

He says it so plainly, like it's the simplest truth.

Dean's heart stops, and he feels light headed. “What does that—Cas?” he flounders, because this isn't how this was supposed to go. This wasn't what Dean expected.

He's not supposed to get what he wants.

Cas smiles, and it's warm and bright. Dean wonders idly if his grace is smiling too, if they can do that sort of thing. He hopes it shines blue. “The name you gave me,” Cas answers, “like you've given me so much else.”

But at that Dean must shake his head. “Not enough though,” he pleads. “Not—Not what I've wanted. Not all of it.” He holds Cas' hand and hopes that says what his useless mouth can't.

“Well, we have time,” Cas assures him, but it has the opposite effect that Cas must have intended. Dean panics.

“Yeah, but how much? How do I know we aren't both gonna kick it tomorrow? I—Shit,” he spits, grasping for thoughts, trying not to sink under the largess of his own feeling. “I can't die either without—” he starts, but then stops. No, that's not right. He starts again. “I have so much shit, Cas. So much fucking baggage and you probably already know most of it. I kill monsters so I can tell myself I'm not one, but that's never felt true since the day I was four.”

He's hurt innocents and sucked off men, and those shouldn't be on the same level but for Dean it is, because he's never been allowed to think otherwise, not for a minute. Not even with Cas, whom he loves so deeply it hurts, and it's hurt for _years_. It hurts when he dies and it hurts when he leaves and it even hurts when he's _here_ , but Dean can't touch him, can't keep him always by his side.

“You're not a monster, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean can't help but laugh. Not at Cas, but at the idea that Dean isn't the name of someone horribly broken.

“Yeah, well, tell that to my dad,” he bites out.

Cas' hand tightens around his, and his face gets dark. “If I could speak to your father I'd only do so if I could punch him first,” he affirms, so righteously that Dean can't help but love him more for it.  
  
Dean snorts. “Yeah, he'd hate you, too.” Really, it's a compliment. His dad was a piece of shit.

“Good,” Cas says, and it thaws Dean a little.

“Yeah,” he says, and then the right words start tumbling out of him. “You are. You're—” he turns, so he's looking straight at Cas, their hands still joined between them. “I'm glad it was you,” he says, “That saved me, I mean, from the Pit. I'm glad it was you. Not some other douche angel.”

Cas' smiles, and it's not big, but it's real. It's _true_.

“I'm glad it was me, too.”

Something settles then, in Dean's chest. Something steadies. He can do this.

“You said knowing us changed you, but um,” he says, “It changed me too. I think, ah,” he glances down at Cas' thumb, where it rests over Dean's scarred knuckles. He smiles, too, and it's a bit rueful but mostly not, because how could he regret any of this. “I think I couldn't fall for anyone else again.”

Cas sucks in a breath, like he wasn't expecting Dean so say anything so blatant. “Dean,” is all he says, but that's not all he means. Cas has that way of making his name sound like a reverent song.

“Just so—Just so you know,” Dean continues. “Because there's that, too. If you want.” Dean finally looks up again, with a nervous quirk of his lips. “Me.”

And there, something falls into place. Or maybe the pieces were already there, they just had to turn around and look. “I do,” Cas replies, and drops his grip only to reach for Dean's face instead. It's a tentative touch, so Dean leans into his palm as it cups his face. He leans towards, Cas too.

His eyes flick from Cas' brow to his mouth, that lush mouth that's tempted Dean for so long and been the source of far too many wet dreams for a guy that's pushing forty. Cas' lips part, hanging slightly open, and he sways inwards. Dean meets him halfway.

When they kiss it's nothing earth shattering. It's a warm press of lips against lips, with a couple of sighs for good measure. It doesn't deepen, but it's not brief either, both of them lingering in the contact, languishing in the final collapse of the last barricade.

They made it.

When they part, Cas blessedly doesn't move far. His hand has dropped to the base of Dean's neck, and his forehead leans against Dean's own, preserving the intimate breath between them.

“Is this okay?” Cas asks, thumb stroking along the stubbled curve of Dean's jaw.  
  
“Yeah,” he answers shakily, short but with feeling. “Yeah,” he repeats, and then wraps his mouth around the one name that won't leave him no matter how many forces in the universe try to rip it away: “Cas,” he breathes, and he feels both winded and full all at once.

But it's okay. 'Cause this is home.

 

 


End file.
